


Swordplay

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment-fic meme on LJ's got_exchange. <br/><i>Prompt:  Robb/Roose.  Swordplay.  Practice, if you want.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Swordplay

When they weren’t otherwise occupied, Robb took to sparring with his bannermen, knowing that their experiences in battle, colored and shaped by each man’s respective personality and background, would prove vital in his growth as a fighter. It was pleasant in the makeshift yard behind the line of camp tents, and if he squinted just right, he could almost discard the weight of the crown, could almost forget that he was on the march for a lost kingdom, could imagine that he was still the boy he’d been at Winterfell, playing at warriors and knights with Jon Snow and Theon, his brothers in feeling, if not in name. But those days were past, and he concentrated as Greatjon Umber threw his brutish strength behind that two-handed bastard sword of his, easily dodging the big man’s swipes. The Greatjon was almost brutish in his strength, and fearsome in battle, charging ahead with a determination that was frightening to any opponent, but in single-handed combat, his moves were easily predictable, and despite his smaller size, Robb was easily able to anticipate where the blade would fall, and nimbly move aside. 

When he disarmed him, his opponent had only laughed loudly, clapping him on the back with great force, and striding off to his tent for a flagon of ale to quash his thirst. Robb took a long breath, hardly tired, and thought that he’d go once more before retiring for his dinner. He spied several of the Ryswell men talking quietly with Roose Bolton near the edge of the clearing, and wondered if one of them might be interested. The Ryswells as a whole were hot-tempered and quarrelsome, as wild as the horses that gave them their sigil and their fame throughout the Rills and he thought that it might be a challenging duel to face one. But the two men, boys really, took off running towards camp. 

“Lord Bolton,” he called, hefting his sword, gesturing with it. “Would you care to spar?” Bolton did not reply but crossed the expanse of grass and joined him. 

“If Your Grace wishes,” he replied, quite ambivalent about the prospect. He was an able enough fighter, not strong in body like the Greatjon had been, but with a mercilessness that had not been present in Robb’s other partners. It almost seemed as though he went too far, bringing the blade close enough to wound, causing Robb in several instances to back away and to falter. Although he did not drop his sword or lose his balance, he was not easy in the match. 

“Your Grace is quite skilled,” Bolton observed, not out of breath in the least, deflecting an uppercut from Robb almost casually. 

“I was taught by the finest in the realm,” Robb said, remembering Rodrik Cassel and his lessons at Winterfell, drilling endlessly with the Master at Arms and his son Jory. 

Bolton smiled thinly. “A privilege afforded to our finest northern lords,” he said ironically, then continued, “as my boy can attest to. The bastard can barely hold a blade, and he hacks about it as though he were a butcher trimming meat.” 

Robb did not laugh at this, considering the source, but drove on, driving Bolton back until the man was nearly flush with a tree trunk. 

Their eyes locked and Robb assumed that his victory was near. “Then again,” Bolton mused, “I suppose that it is best that he be so clumsy. At least for House Stark.” 

And he lashed out, his blade grazing Robb’s unprotected hand, letting blood, his face as still as a mask. Robb dropped his sword, the cut stinging, and he felt blood drip down his wrist, into his sleeve. He knew his mistake. He should not have taken his eyes off of Bolton’s hands. The attempt to stare him down had only led to defeat. 

But it was a shallow cut, and the bleeding was but a trickle.

Bolton dropped his sword. “Apologies, Your Grace,” he said, his tone just as cold as it had been when he discussed his ill-gotten son. 

“No apologies necessary, Lord Bolton,” Robb said, wanting nothing more than to take his leave of the man. He drew in his breath as the cold air hit the cut, sucking wind through clenched teeth. Bolton inspected the wound, his gloved hand brushing Robb’s skin. It was just as cold and unpleasant as the breeze, despite the gauntlet that he wore. 

He shivered.

“You would do well to have that looked at,” Bolton said, and there was something ugly and insinuating in his tone. Robb could only think of Talisa, could imagine her hands, warm and soothing, bathing and binding the wound, and perhaps later, her lips—

His eyes were closed as he stood there, Bolton a hair’s-breadth away, and when opened his eyes and saw the fleeting trace of a contemptuous expression on his bannerman’s face, replaced with the calm, even mien that he usually bore, he knew that he had forgotten himself. 

“Your Grace,” Bolton said again. “Attend to yourself.” He looked at the cut, now beginning to clot. “Lest things are left to fester.” And he turned and went, headed for his own tent, and Robb stood there for a while in the wind, watching the sun sink, clutching himself against the cold.


End file.
